vied with each other for Most Hilarious Portrayal of the Great Battle.
Three days after the event, Vere stood, simmering, before a bookshop window.
Displayed therein was a large print whose caption read, "Lady Grendel Gives the Duke of A______a Drubbing."
The artist had drawn him as a great, hulking brute wearing a stage villain's leer.
He was reaching for the gorgon, portrayed as a dainty slip of a female. Above his caricatured head, the bubble read, "Why, my pretty, haven't you ever heard of droit de seigneur ! I'm a duke now, don't you know?"
Miss Grenville was posed with her fists upraised. Her bubble said, "I'll show you a droit —and a gauche as well."
The feeble play on the French words for "right" and "left," he explained to a baffled-looking Trent, was intended to pass for wit.
"I got that part," Bertie said. "But that droy dee signew-er—ain't it French for two sovereigns? I thought you only offered a pound for the little gal."
The droit de signeur , Vere explained through stiff jaws, was the right of the feudal lord to deflower his vassals' brides.
Trent's square face reddened. "Oh, I say, that ain't funny. Virgins—and new-wed besides." He started for the bookshop door, doubtless intending to set matters straight in his own inimitable style.
Loretta Chase - The Last Hellion
Vere drew him back. "It's only a picture," he said. "A joke, Trent, that's all."
Recalling the adage "Out of sight, out of mind," he steered his would-be champion to the curb and started to cross the street with him.
Then he had to haul Bertie back, out of the way of the black vehicle bearing down upon them.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" Trent cried as he stumbled back to the footway. "Speak of the devil."
It was she, the cause of the unceasing stale jokes and witless caricatures.
As she barreled past, Miss Boudicca Grenville saluted them in coachman style, touching her whip to her bonnet brim, and flashing a cocky grin.
Had she been a man, Vere would have hurtled after her, pulled her from the vehicle, and knocked that cocksure smile down her throat. But she wasn't a man, and all he could do was watch, smoldering, until she turned a corner a moment later… out of sight but far, perilously far, from forgotten.
Loretta Chase - The Last Hellion
Chapter Three
Previous Top Next
The Duke of Ainswood's mood might have lightened had he known how close Lydia came to driving into the corner—and the shop standing there—rather than
'round it.
Though she collected her wits in time, it was in the very last tick of time, and she narrowly averted overturning as it was.
Not to mention she'd nearly run the two men down only seconds before.
This was because Lydia had no sooner recognized the tall figure at the curb than her brain shut down. Completely. No idea where she was or what she was doing.
It was only for a moment, but that was a moment far too long. And even afterward, she hadn't fully recovered. Though she'd managed the cool salute well enough, she had a horrible suspicion that her smile had been far too wide and…
well, stupid, not to mince matters. A stupid, moonstruck smile, she reflected angrily, to match the idiotish pounding of her heart. As though she were a silly girl of thirteen instead of a hardened spinster of eight and twenty.
She lectured herself all the rest of the way to Bridewell prison.
When she entered the fortress of misery, though, she put her personal troubles aside.
She went to the Pass-Room. Here, pauper women claiming residence in other parts of England were held for a week before being sent back to their own parishes, the prevailing philosophy being, "Charity begins at home."
Loretta Chase - The Last Hellion
A row of low, narrow, straw-filled stalls lined the wall facing the door. The door and fireplace interrupted a similar line of stalls on that side. About twenty women, some with children, occupied the chamber.
Some had come to London to seek their fortunes; some had been ruined before
Three days after the event, Vere stood, simmering, before a bookshop window.
Displayed therein was a large print whose caption read, "Lady Grendel Gives the Duke of A______a Drubbing."
The artist had drawn him as a great, hulking brute wearing a stage villain's leer.
He was reaching for the gorgon, portrayed as a dainty slip of a female. Above his caricatured head, the bubble read, "Why, my pretty, haven't you ever heard of droit de seigneur ! I'm a duke now, don't you know?"
Miss Grenville was posed with her fists upraised. Her bubble said, "I'll show you a droit —and a gauche as well."
The feeble play on the French words for "right" and "left," he explained to a baffled-looking Trent, was intended to pass for wit.
"I got that part," Bertie said. "But that droy dee signew-er—ain't it French for two sovereigns? I thought you only offered a pound for the little gal."
The droit de signeur , Vere explained through stiff jaws, was the right of the feudal lord to deflower his vassals' brides.
Trent's square face reddened. "Oh, I say, that ain't funny. Virgins—and new-wed besides." He started for the bookshop door, doubtless intending to set matters straight in his own inimitable style.
Loretta Chase - The Last Hellion
Vere drew him back. "It's only a picture," he said. "A joke, Trent, that's all."
Recalling the adage "Out of sight, out of mind," he steered his would-be champion to the curb and started to cross the street with him.
Then he had to haul Bertie back, out of the way of the black vehicle bearing down upon them.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" Trent cried as he stumbled back to the footway. "Speak of the devil."
It was she, the cause of the unceasing stale jokes and witless caricatures.
As she barreled past, Miss Boudicca Grenville saluted them in coachman style, touching her whip to her bonnet brim, and flashing a cocky grin.
Had she been a man, Vere would have hurtled after her, pulled her from the vehicle, and knocked that cocksure smile down her throat. But she wasn't a man, and all he could do was watch, smoldering, until she turned a corner a moment later… out of sight but far, perilously far, from forgotten.
Loretta Chase - The Last Hellion
Chapter Three
Previous Top Next
The Duke of Ainswood's mood might have lightened had he known how close Lydia came to driving into the corner—and the shop standing there—rather than
'round it.
Though she collected her wits in time, it was in the very last tick of time, and she narrowly averted overturning as it was.
Not to mention she'd nearly run the two men down only seconds before.
This was because Lydia had no sooner recognized the tall figure at the curb than her brain shut down. Completely. No idea where she was or what she was doing.
It was only for a moment, but that was a moment far too long. And even afterward, she hadn't fully recovered. Though she'd managed the cool salute well enough, she had a horrible suspicion that her smile had been far too wide and…
well, stupid, not to mince matters. A stupid, moonstruck smile, she reflected angrily, to match the idiotish pounding of her heart. As though she were a silly girl of thirteen instead of a hardened spinster of eight and twenty.
She lectured herself all the rest of the way to Bridewell prison.
When she entered the fortress of misery, though, she put her personal troubles aside.
She went to the Pass-Room. Here, pauper women claiming residence in other parts of England were held for a week before being sent back to their own parishes, the prevailing philosophy being, "Charity begins at home."
Loretta Chase - The Last Hellion
A row of low, narrow, straw-filled stalls lined the wall facing the door. The door and fireplace interrupted a similar line of stalls on that side. About twenty women, some with children, occupied the chamber.
Some had come to London to seek their fortunes; some had been ruined before
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